


Return to Innocence

by JPeterson



Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, F/F, Sibling Incest, Sister/Sister Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:27:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JPeterson/pseuds/JPeterson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only by the barest of margins that she spins to meet the rushing footsteps and catches the speed-blurred downstroke against her own blade. The man keeps pressing, though; bearing down on her bodily with a baring of his teeth and a hard narrowing of his eyes, and she can feel her nostrils flaring as she hears the sound of more feet and struggles to get her own under her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return to Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS GOING TO HURT. The M-rating is for _violence_ this time, because this is a fairly dark canon-divergence piece from the get-go and the Elsanna is more implied than directly shown. I'm also warning you for not one, but two instances of _major character death_ , though I do promise that everything ends up alright in the end because I'm not cruel enough to do anything else.
> 
> This was rather heavily inspired by – and named for – Enigma's _[Return to Innocence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk_sAHh9s08)_ (which I'm using three lines from and recommend listening to before, after or while reading), and you may also spot a few _Back to the Future_ references.
> 
> Enjoy.

 

It's pure instinct that keeps her from being spitted. Little more than a flicker of warning at the outside of her senses that has her heartrate jumping into a sprint and her arm lifting just in time for the crossbow bolt to pierce the shield in her hand, rather than her leather-guarded chest.

“Ambush!”

The cry echoes in the frosty air before she's even finished pulling her sword free, and then everything is chaos. The peaceful, snow-covered forest explodes with motion; dark forms pouring from all around them as their small, mounted group rallies, and the silence of the winter night vanishes beneath the yells of battle, the shrill neighing of horses and the clang of steel against steel.

“Get _off me!”_ she growls at one soldier who drops into her saddle from an overhanging tree, and snarls when his fist pulls at her hair. A flash of moonlit metal at the edge of her vision is warning enough; a frantic upwards jerk of her elbow lets her knock away the dagger before it does worse than cut her arm, and when she throws her head back, there's the dull thump of skull against nose and a low grunt.

“Robin!” The call somehow reaches her, and she throws herself against her horse. In the nick of time, apparently, as the shaft that was meant for her instead buries itself in the throat of the man behind her and leaves him gurgling blood onto the back of her neck.

He drops to the ground, grabbing at his torn jugular, and _she_ curls her legs tightly as the animal beneath her rears and caves in the face of another attacker with sharp hooves.

“Archer – two o'clock!” she yells, and barely sees an arrow whizzing by in the opposite direction while she parries a blow from an axe and proceeds to take the arm holding it clean off. The man screams, and then goes still when the spiky pommel of her sword breaks through his skull and adds a few bits of brain to the already reddening snow. “Round up! Wall them out and hold your ground!”

She loses sight of how much time passes, as she always does; her focus narrowing to the simple purpose of _surviving_ , of _not_ hearing the hoarse cries of her own dying as they're run though, or cut in half, or has their throats slit.

_Later_ . Her jaw sets grimly as she knocks a man back with a sharp boot to the chest, and then lunges dangerously far over the side of her saddle to slash the tip of her sword across his eyes.

He goes down with a chilling scream, and is trampled beneath the hooves of another horse in a matter of seconds.

“Away!” She catches the edge of a blade against her own with a shower of sparks, and bashes her shield against its wielder's face. “Move - all of you! There's too many of them!”

“Robin, go!”

Her head turns sharply enough to send the ends of her hair flying, and for a timeless moment, everything slows to a crawl as she meets the eyes of the one man that has been her most trusted – her bodyguard, of sorts – since all of this began.

“They know,” he tells her, in that brief second. “It's you they want. Go.”

Everything in her roars at the very thought. “I c--”

“You _must!_ ” A large hand grabs her arm, and the hardness of his eyes almost burns her. “Go. Get to safety. We'll come back from this as long as you're alive.”

A short, whistling breath through her teeth and – almost without thought – a flicker of metal that has a small knife impaling an approaching enemy through the neck, because the man in front of her isn't a fighter through anything but necessity. “Damn you,” she growls, and refuses to let her chest tighten. “If you die here, I swear I'll kill you.”

“ _Go._ ”

And she does – spurring her horse into as much of a gallop as he can manage in the snow – knowing that she'll probably never see any of them again, except maybe when lighting their pyres.

Kai never makes a promise he can't keep, and she is excruciatingly aware that just now, he promised nothing.

xXxXx

Of course some of them follow her. She loses them in the darkness of the second night, though; taking all the precautions she can think of and using every trick in her book of hard-won skills to cover her tracks or lead them astray, conscious more than anything of the dire need to _not_ lead to them to the one spot that remains safe, even now.

Alone at last and as sure as she can be that she _is_ just that, she cuts the rope that drags hastily hacked pine branches behind her horse to cover the hoofprints, and lets him walk slowly because no matter how badly she needs to get going, she will only take longer if she exhausts him more than he already is. It's for roughly the same reason that she dismounts at a narrow stream and hacks at the icy surface with a large rock until the hole is big enough for Agdar to drink from; leaning against his side as he does and trying to pull her own, exhausted thoughts into some sort of order.

When did she last sleep for any noticeable amount of time? Three-- no, _four_ days ago, she thinks it was; a luxurious, uninterrupted five hours after a small battle won in a large war that they come ever closer to losing.

In the pale, pre-dawn light, Agdar snuffles at her chest in a mixture of icy water and warm air, and she chuckles briefly in pure reflex; rubbing the front of his head before pulling a small feeding sack from one of his saddle bags, filling it as much as she dares while on the run and leaving him in peace to eat. Instead, she forces down a little food of her own; a somewhat beaten apple, some dried meats and a trail bar that she still has. It's from the last batch Jens made before the camp he was at was overrun, so it's dry and stale, but it's also the final evidence of another skill lost and she has to force herself to not let it taste like another defeat in a long string of them.

She kneels by the punctured ice and removes her gauntlets before washing down the mostly dry food with a few handfuls of cold, clear water, and then closes her eyes as she scrubs another handful or two over her face. It's nowhere near the bath she so dearly wants, of course, but it does make her feel a little more awake, so she repeats the motion over and over until even her hair is sopping wet and the chill is making her blood run through her veins that much faster.

She's a mess, she decides wryly when she eyes her reflection in the stream, and absently touches the ends of her hair where it just barely brushes against the tops of her shoulders. There's a fresh cut along the edge of her jaw where that one arrow had just barely grazed her skin, but it's too shallow to leave a scar, and it seems that for at least a little while longer, the one that bisects her eyebrow, narrowly misses her eye and then continues down her cheek will be the only one she has.

On her face, at least.

The lack of any sound dawns on her a split second before Agdar snorts in warning, and it's only by the barest of margins that she spins to meet the rushing footsteps and catches the speed-blurred downstroke against her own blade. The man keeps pressing, though; bearing down on her bodily with a baring of his teeth and a hard narrowing of his eyes, and she can feel her nostrils flaring as she hears the sound of more feet and struggles to get her own under her.

_Up, damn you!_ she growls at herself, and grits her teeth and locks her burning arms while her knees ache and her boots scrabble for footing on the ice-covered bank.  _Up!_

With a yell, she finally manages; surging up and forward and making the man stagger back, and she cuts his throat halfway through a spin that has her parrying another strike while catching a third against her thankfully plate-covered shoulder.  _Damn her_ for leaving her shield strapped to Agdar's side. She  _knows better_ .

By the time most of them are breathing their last against the frozen ground, her legs are shaking from the effort of holding her body up, and she's bleeding freely herself from several cuts, though at least they're only minor ones. The last, one, though – a brawny man wearing the markings of a royal captain and sporting a cleaved, weeping eyebrow thanks to her own efforts – slams into her bodily and knocks her back, and her boots catch on a large rock before she falls and the back of her head thunks against the trunk of a large pine.

She doesn't lose consciousness, but it's a close call for several frightening seconds while the ever-cloudy sky spins above her, and her focus only comes back when he straddles her thighs and wraps his leather-covered hands around her throat.

“That's quite enough, _My Queen_ ,” he hisses, and tightens his grip until she can feel his thumbs pressing against her windpipe and cutting off her air. “The king does want you home, but he never said he wanted you home _alive_.”

The edges of her vision are turning black, and panic is overriding everything else as she feels her life start to ebb away. She claws fruitlessly at the gauntleted arm and hand, _tries_ to breathe but _fails_ , and loses control of everything but instinct while dark, hating eyes bore into her and blood drips onto her face.

But when her hand is grasping at the leather covering his side, her fingers find something familiar. She knows the shape of a hilt by touch alone, and her mind is singing almost calmly as her fingers close around it, pull the dagger free, and with a last, desperate surge of energy, bury the blade in his side. He _howls_ in pain and rage, but for a bare instant, his hold loosens enough for a precious, precious breath, and she grits her teeth and twists her hand; carving a crude hole in his flesh until he's mad with agony and grabbing for the dagger instead of her throat.

That's the only chance she'll get, but thankfully it's also the only chance she needs, so she yanks the dagger free, spins it with halfway-numb fingers, and stabs the blade through the underside of his head and directly into the base of his brain.

When he flops into the snow and twitches one last time before stilling, she rolls onto her hands and knees and shakes _everywhere_ as she greedily sucks oxygen into her starving lungs. It seems to take an age before her body calms; before her hands stop trembling and clenching in the pink-spattered snow and the deafening silence of forest animals hiding until the danger has passed, because she almost... _almost_...

“It didn't happen,” she tells herself with a shake of her head, and touches her bruising throat gingerly at the hoarse husk her voice has now acquired. “Didn't happen.”

Only then does she hear it, and her heart plummets before her head can even turn.

“Oh, no.” She doesn't stand; only shuffles frantically through the snow on her hands and knees toward the trembling, supine form; towards rolling, dark eyes and a soft nose covered in froth. “No, no, no, Agdar...” But the cruel rend in his skin is deep and seeping yet more blood onto the ground as she lifts his massive head into her lap and the snow melts beneath them, and she knows that there's nothing she can do even as she tangles her bloody fingers in his sweaty mane and feels as if her stomach is caving in on itself.

She ends his suffering with a flick of her sword and a shudder of memory that vibrates through her entire body, and then weeps for the first time in years.

xXxXx

It takes her another two days to reach the valley, though only one of them is actually spent traveling. The other, she spends exhausting herself mentally rather than physically; thawing the ground until she can bury Agdar's remains safely in the dark soil.

The soldiers? Their bodies, she leaves for the wolves.

She doesn't dare sleep for more than half an hour at a time, and even then only when she's carefully searched the area and ensconced herself safely in the boughs of a tree. Her exhaustion slows her, but not as much as traveling under her own power or carrying what she deemed most important in a collection of dearly needed items on her own shoulders rather than across Adgar's broad back, but she makes it while it's still light, and that's the important part.

“Anna!”

It actually takes her a moment to realize that she's the one being hailed – for the sake of her own safety, she's responded almost exclusively to 'Robin' for years – but this _is_ the one safe place they have left, and here, she's free to answer to the name her parents gave her.

“Kristoff,” she sighs, and then winces when he grabs her up in a bear-hug, though she still returns it. “Ugh; missed you too, you big lug, but be careful. Pretty sure I have at least two cracked ribs in there somewhere.”

“Yeah; you're a mess.” He chuckles with the ease of someone who's seen her in this state more times than either of them care to remember, and sets her back down before looking past her shoulder. “Where is-- wasn't there a near-score of people traveling with you? On horseback?”

“Yeah.” She swallows, and sets her jaw. “There was.” The warm wind limited to this place alone moves between them, and then she licks her lips and glances up at the sky. “Did I--” Telling time from nature alone is difficult; much more so when winter is the only season there is and the stars are almost constantly hidden behind clouds. “Did I make it in time?”

“Yeah.” Kristoff's grin is weak, but there. “You did. Barely, since it's today, but you did.”

That's one thing to go right, at least, she considers, and blows out a breath. “Okay. Tell me where I can get cleaned up and changed, then. I don't want him to see me like this.”

xXxXx

Rock trolls generally don't need to bathe, but since Anna's self-imposed exile and the rise of Robin White's resistance, there's been a steady stream of humans fluttering through the valley. As such, there are several open caves where the hot springs surface without being _too_ hot, and since she's one of not even a handful of humans there now, she has the largest one to herself as she washes the sweat and grime from her body and lets the blessed heat seep into her exhausted muscles.

Bulda's retrieved a set of clothing from the stores they keep; a belted tunic, a pair of breeches, boots that aren't caked with old blood stains and a scarf to hide her bruised throat from the children, so nothing fancy, but it's clean and dry and soft against her battered body, and she clips only a sheathed dagger to her waist before she exits, because here, she knows that she's safe.

It isn't hard to find the trolls, and tired as she remains even after another, short nap in the spring, she can't help but grin at the squeals and the childish laughter as she follows it to a nearby clearing. At the edge of it, she pauses for a few moments; leaning against a tree on one shoulder while she watches countless, moss-covered bodies bounce and tumble and jump all over the place, with a single, pale form sprinting to and fro between them; laughing uproariously all the while.

Anna watches the commotion fondly, and then fights back another grin so she can pull her lips inwards and give a long, sharp whistle.

The sole human in the group is crouched on top of a large, long boulder when the sound rings out, and when he whips his head around and sees her, a wide grin splits his face, and he jumps to his feet and starts running over the stone as if he expects to simply be able to keep going in mid-air.

The top of the boulder is well over Anna's head, and she curses sharply before taking off herself; only barely managing to catch the flying body in a jolt that jars her injuries painfully.

“Olaf!” she scolds, but still smiles and laughs genuinely for the first time in ages when he wraps his small arms and legs around her and presses halfway sloppy kisses all over her face. “You're not made of rock like your friends, kiddo. Try to remember that, okay?”

“Mama!” Olaf responds politically, and grins.

And Anna shakes her head because while he is Elsa's spitting image, he is _definitely_ her son. Even now at the age of five, there isn't the faintest sign of the man who sired him anywhere in his features, his coloring or his build. His eyes are the perfect mirror of Anna's own, and the same goes for his smile and the shape of his body, which promises a lean muscularity as he grows older. Everything else about him, however, is Elsa through and through, and while that does make it hurt to look at him sometimes, it would be so much worse to look at him and see his father.

“Happy birthday, kiddo,” she murmurs through a kiss to his cheek, and then tickles him and doesn't think about how he was born a year to the day after Elsa's death.

xXxXx

It's the first decent night's sleep she's had in ages; flat on her back in a sheet-covered pile of moss with her son sprawled on top of her, and safe in the knowledge that troll magic keeps the valley hidden from outside eyes. She's dry and warm in the firelit cave, and down so deep that even her finely honed instincts take several seconds longer than normal to respond when there's a touch to her arm.

“Pabbie,” she murmurs groggily when her eyes flutter open and her vision adjusts, and then immediately snaps awake. “What--”

“Nothing is wrong,” he promises; voice low in deference to the sleeping child. “I merely wish to speak with you, Your Majesty.”

The title still makes her want to cringe, but she shoves it down and instead flicks her eyes to the darkness outside. “Now?”

A nod. “You did ask me to contact you the very second I found something.”

_Something_ . Vague as it is, that's all he needs to say, because Anna has only ever asked two things of the trolls; to keep Olaf safe and to help her find a way to reclaim Arendelle. So that's enough to rouse her fully, and she carefully settles her slumbering son – again,  _definitely_ hers, because he sleeps as deeply as she did when she was his age – into the warm bedding before rising and following Pabbie into the night.

“What did you find?” she asks, and sits cross-legged on the grass in the circle of stones that she – now – remembers her parents taking her and Elsa to when they were still so very young.

“A possibility,” Pabbie tells her, and leans on his staff. “There isn't a way to liberate Arendelle now – not with the way things are – but I may have found a way to undo the damage that has already been done.”

“May,” she repeats. “So you're not sure.”

“No.” The admission comes easily enough. “You never can be where magic is concerned, but there is a chance.”

At the mention of magic, Anna curls her fingers, and feels the small, controlled surge in her blood as warmth grows in the palm of her hand. “What kind of magic are we talking about?”

“Time magic.” Pabbie's dark eyes study her carefully. “I may be able to send you – as you are now – to a point before all of this happened. To a point where you can lay the groundwork for preventing Queen Elsa's death, and thereby keep this--” He gestures at the air around them. “-- from ever becoming reality.”

She's been through enough to know that if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. “At what price?” she therefore asks.

“Your life.” He raises a hand before she can do more than draw in a breath, and shakes his head. “Your life as it is _here_ ,” he then specifies. “If you succeed and this time ceases to exist, you yourself will not have cause to become who you are, and as such, you will fade from existence. Your younger self, however, will not be harmed as long as you have no direct contact with her.”

“And Olaf?” The silence is all the answer she needs, and she slumps forward and presses the heels of her hands against her eyes; swallowing audibly several times. “I can't do that, Pabbie,” she finally husks. “I can't sentence my own son to oblivion; if things hadn't happened the way they did, he never would have been born, and if I do end up somehow... _preventing_ myself from marrying that absolute bastard, then--”

“Your Majesty.” Pabbie's words make her look up, and he's studying her with a puzzled expression; as if he's surprised. “King Hans didn't sire Olaf,” he says, and when he tells her who _did_ , Anna's emotions spike so sharply that she ends up spilling the contents of her stomach on the ground.

“That's not possible,” she wheezes even though just _looking_ at Olaf was always enough to make her wonder, and slumps back against a large stone. “It took way too lo-- I didn't even show any signs of being pregnant until _months_ aft—”

“You also didn't show signs of having magic until months after,” Pabbie reminds her gently, and hands over a waterskin. “Any power takes time to acclimatize to a new body; especially one who had no magic at all.”

Her heart is pounding against her ribs as she rinses her mouth out once, twice, and then takes the offered mint leaves and chews on them until the foul taste has left her tongue. Her mind is whirling, but the one, overarching thought is that if Hans  _isn't_ Olaf's father, then there is a chance that her son will still be born even if Pabbie's time spell works out.

“What happens if it doesn't work?” she asks.

“To the best of my knowledge, you will be returned here and have to continue on as you have so far,” is the answer, and then Pabbie cocks his head at her. “Was that enough to base a decision on, Your Majesty?”

For several heartbeats, Anna just closes her eyes and  _breathes_ ; in and out, in and out, until her spinning mind has quieted enough.

“Yes,” she then sighs, and gets to her feet. “Give me a moment to say goodbye.”

xXxXx

_The camp is burning when they ride in, and the smell of roasted flesh is thick in the air. But she bites her tongue and and grits her teeth, and doesn't even dismount when – at the scorched, center clearing – she and her escort are met by a half-dozen of her own men; bruised and bleeding, but alive and successful in capturing a few of those who did this; who set the fire and doomed so many of her men to death._

“ _Robin,” one of her own greets, and when the soot-flecked breeze blows a lock of her own hair in front of her eyes, it looks as red at the fire itself. “What do you want us to do with them?”_

_Once, her choice would have been mercy. Imprisonment or release far from civilization, but now... now all she sees is the blood-soaked ground and the columns of smoke rising into the night sky, and all she remembers is how long it has truly been since mercy was an option. If indeed it ever was._

“ _Burn them,” she spits, and doesn't even flinch under the startled glances from several pairs of eyes. “Alive.”_

“ _As you wish,” the man – Lars – nods, and the first soldier he grabs has a noticeable wet stain on his trousers. He's whimpering, but starts screaming the second Lars shoves him into the fire, where--_

_\--her head whips up, and she narrows her eyes at Kristoff. “What did you say?”_

_He swallows, but doesn't look away. “That Elsa's gravesite was vandalized. I overheard the group responsible talking about it last I snuck into the city, and--”_

“ _How--” she stops him, and hears the tone of guttural rage in her own voice even as he flinches. “--badly?”_

“ _Very,” Kristoff admits. “We can fix it, but it'll take--”_

“ _\--resources that we don't have,” she finishes for him, and closes her eyes tightly as she struggles with the urge to find the cretins and slit their throats herself. “It's near the valley,” she then says, and looks at him. “God knows I'll miss you, but I trust you to take care of it. Will you?”_

_His eyes soften, and a large hand settles on her shoulder and squeezes. “Of course I will.”_

“ _Thank you,” she whispers, and hugs him. “Give Olaf a big, warm hug for me when you see him. It feels like I haven't seen him in--_

_\--years, Kai!” she groans, and slumps in her seat. “Years of war, and we're further from our goal than we were when we started! Years of this--” She shows her palm, and the faint glow that she can – at least – call forth without difficulty. “--and it's still all I can do to thaw enough space to put a damn tent in; let alone an entire kingdom!”_

“ _Patience, Robin,” Kai soothes, and leans on the table between them as he catches her eyes. “As long as you live, so does hope. Let's not snuff it out just yet.”_

_He's right, of course, but damn if it isn't weighing her down; the heavy burden of responsibility, the strain of carrying the hope of so many people squarely on her own shoulders, and the ever-increasing defeats. Camps overrun, scouts intercepted, spies captured and soldiers executed in the middle of the capital city for nothing more than fighting to free the people, and to take the stolen crown off of that bastard's head._

_But she keeps trying and God knows that she has the knowledge she needs; she knows more about killing and healing and generalship now than she ever dreamed she would, but she doesn't have the resources to do what it takes, and every new failure is like--_

_\--a blow to the chest, and she thinks she may actually stagger backwards a little. “Why?” she demands. “Why are they withdrawing their support now?”_

_The messenger cringes at the volume of her voice, and clenches his fingers around the hat in his hands. “Because the king is spreading the rumor that it was you who killed Queen Elsa.”_

_She almost – almost – throws up at his words, but manages to school her reaction to simply digging her nails into the palms of her own hands hard enough to draw blood. “Fine,” she grits out. “You may go.”_

_He does, and she watches him while her eyes burn from hopelessness, because what is she going to do? It isn't as if she can--_

_\--help it. He's bearing down on her and it's her or him, and she isn't about to roll over for anyone, much less a man who follows gold rather than loyalty. So she tumbles to the side and lets him stumble past her, and when he does, she whirls and sinks her dagger into the center of his back once, twice, three times, and however many more it takes before he goes still on the ground._

_Chilling as it is to realize, the act of taking a life no longer bothers her. It used to – the very first time she did it, she cried herself to sleep for a month straight – but now she just cleans her blade on his surcoat, and then finds herself staring at her blood-spattered hands as if she's never seen them before in her life._

_When did Olaf's Mama become a cold-blooded killer? When did Anna of Arendelle start snuffing out lives left and right without even thinking about it?_

_But in many ways, Anna of Arendelle died with her sister, and now, it's Robin White who sets her jaw, lifts the blade and hacks off the two, red braids that effectively belong to another person entirely. They fall to the ground with twin, muted thumps, and she throws herself back into the fray and ignores just how much it--_

_\--hurts. GOD, it hurts; as if she's turning inside out, and her ears are ringing from how loudly her own screams echo inside the cave._

“ _Almost there, sweetheart,” Bulda tells her. “Just one more time.”_

“ _You said that SEVEN TIMES AGO!” she roars when another contraction rotates her insides, but there are cold, stone hands under her own fingers, and she squeezes as tightly as she can as she bears down, because it's not as if she can hurt them, anyway._

_When it's finally over, she's sweaty and aching and promptly forgets all about it when a tiny, squirming bundle is placed in her arms. And when Olaf – because that's what his name will be – blinks his tiny eyes open and squints at her from under fine, white-blonde hair, she weeps not only out of pain or relief or the jolt of realization at being a mother, but because the last time she saw eyes of that color, it's was right when the light drained out of Elsa's._

“ _You're beautiful,” she tells him as she kisses his head, because he is, but damn if she doesn't miss Elsa more now than she's ever missed--_

_\--her monthly cycles. Two of them straight, now, and while she hasn't told Hans yet, she's pretty sure she knows what it means. Still, she's reading the umpteenth medical text; initially something she started to do because she wanted to make sure, but now she keeps it up because there are things that just don't make sense._

_The picture becomes clearer with every page, and though she hides it when she goes to bed and feels his arms around her, it's as if ice is spreading in her stomach, because if those books are to be believed, then Elsa could have been saved, and chances are that her now-husband knew it._

_She stops lying to herself not a week later, and one long, private talk with Kai and a few days after that, she's running because there's no telling how much longer she has before the newly crowned king sets out to eliminate her, as well. She's painfully aware of the child growing inside of her as she leaves with as many loyal soldiers as she can, and runs straight--_

_\--into Hans, who catches her upper arms before she can reach the door to the topmost room of the ice palace._

“ _Anna,” he says as he catches her eyes, and his own are aching. “I'm sorry.”_

“ _No,” she breathes, and stares at the door through blurry eyes; only halfway aware of Kristoff being escorted away. “No, it can't--” They'd hurried. They'd rushed as much as they could, but without any kind of guide to help them, a path up the mountain had been near-impossible to find, and now... “No!”_

“ _I'm so sorry,” Hans whispers. “We only wanted to talk to her, I swear, but-- she attacked us and we-- we had to defend ourselves, Anna! I didn't think it would get so out of hand!”_

“ _It's not your fault,” she chokes, because it isn't – it has to have been an accident. “Is she--”_

“ _No.” He swallows. “But it's... it's not good.”_

_'Not good' is an understatement. When Hans lets her into the room, Elsa is lying in the middle of the floor with an arrow protruding from her chest. She's breathing, but it's shallow and jerky, and her face is even paler than normal in stark contrast to the dark stain spreading below her._

_Morbidly, she's more beautiful than Anna has ever seen her. Gone are the sealed up gowns, the severe style of her hair and the gloves that kept her powers in check. She looks free, more than anything, and the knowledge that she found that freedom at long last, only to lose it almost in the same heartbeat somehow hurts more than anything else._

“ _She's dying, Anna; I'm sorry,” Hans murmurs, and holds her while she cries into his chest. “The only thing we can do is-- is maybe make it happen a little sooner. So she doesn't suffer.”_

“ _Wha-- how?” she stutters._

“ _A coupe,” he supplies; visibly uncomfortable. “The arrow, if-- another push and it'll-- it'll pierce her heart cleanly and... and it'll be over.” There's several seconds of silence while they stare at each other; his eyes dark and guilty and hers wide and uncomprehending. Then he coughs. “I'll do it. It's my fault, anyway.”_

“ _No.” She stops him with a hand on his arm, and takes a shuddering breath. “It's mine. And she's my sister.”_

_So she kneels on the icy floor beside the fallen queen, and shivers at the feeling of Elsa's blood beneath her fingers as they curl shakily around the shaft of the arrow. Her free hand cups Elsa's cheek, and while those blue eyes are hazy and dark with pain, they still warm in recognition when they settle on her, and Elsa releases a bare breath that might have been her name._

“ _I'm so sorry,” Anna whispers into those eyes, and feels the tears streak down her face as she leans down to brush her lips against her sister's... and twists the arrow._

_Elsa jerks once, and then her eyes widen and see nothing as her final breath trickles past Anna's lips and into her lungs._

xXxXx

She almost staggers when everything finally stops spinning, and has to blink several times before she realizes where she is. Arendelle castle and, as luck would have it, she's directly in front of Elsa's bedroom door. A frantic look around tells her that the hallway is completely empty aside from her, and that's enough for her shoulders to loosen and a slow exhale to leave her. When she then glances down the hall again, she's utterly dumbstruck by the sight of _sunlight_ spilling in through the windows, because she honestly can't remember what sunshine feels like anymore.

From long-forgotten habit, she actually raises her hand to knock when she turns back around, and then stares at her own fist for several seconds before changing her mind and letting it fall onto the handle instead. Her fingers are trembling against the golden metal, and she swallows hard several times and feels the clammy sweat build on her skin while her heart races so hard that it actually makes her lightheaded, because she's been in love with a dead woman for years and the thought of actually seeing her _alive_...

The handle moves soundlessly under the weight of her hand, and when she pushes forward, she almost laughs because the door _opens_ without so much as a sound, and God, if she'd known back then that it was really that easy, then a lot of things would have been very different indeed.

Beyond the door, shimmering snowflakes are falling silently through the chilly air. Even the large, triangular window is frosting at the edges, to the point where she can only barely make out Elsa's reflection as she stares out at the world beyond; let alone her own mirror image as she approaches on feet that are completely silent from long practice.

The morning sunlight is pouring in and doing nothing to melt the ice that's spread across the windowsill from her sister's bare hands, and she stops a single breath behind Elsa; watches her body move with short, sharp breathing, and then lifts her eyes enough that she can peer over her shoulder and out of the window.

The sight makes her heart leap painfully, because she isn't sure that she even remembers ever being that young. She remembers the day, of course, and the way in which the black cloth almost seemed to suffocate her; remembers hoping – _praying_ – but also remembers how those prayers went unanswered, and how she sent a single, hopeless look upwards as she lead the somber procession out of the castle, alone. She doesn't remember looking quite so _frail_ , though, and shifts her focus enough to study her body as it looks now; harder, certainly, with much more width to her shoulders from sword-work, rough clothing and a noticeable, overall muscularity on her 24-year old self that leaves her a far cry indeed from the finely clad, 15-year old girl now turning a corner and disappearing from sight.

Elsa's breathing starts hitching the second the copper braids are out of view, and though every pained inhalation makes something claw at her own chest and she desperately wants to hug her, she restrains herself.

If she doesn't, she isn't sure that she'll ever be able to let her go.

“You can still go with her,” she murmurs instead, and takes a step back when Elsa startles and spins in place, because the last thing she wants to seem is _threatening_ , and she realizes that with her appearance, that's going to be a little hard to avoid if she's practically looming over her.

Those blue eyes are wide and frightened and red with tears when they settle on her, and she doesn't blame Elsa for the sharp jerk of her arm or the chilling blast of white, but she _is_ glad that her own reflexes are as sharp as they are when she side-steps and holds up her hands.

“I'm not here to hurt you, Elsa,” she promises softly, and forces herself to focus on _here_ and _now_ , and not on how broken her sister looks or how beautiful she still is.

Elsa is panting; heaving, terrified breathing under the long sleeves and the high collar as she seems to almost stare _through_ her, and her hand is shaking where it still hovers in mid-air with frost speckling along her fingers. But she blinks and wavers as if she wants to step back and move forward all at once, and then--

“... Anna?”

Hearing her name in _that voice_ does so much to her emotions that she doesn't even know where to start sorting everything out. She doesn't _say_ yes or no either way, because she's very aware of the fact that she is and yet really, _really_ isn't, so all she does – after a momentary pause and a small purse of her lips – is nod once.

“That--” Elsa's hand twitches but doesn't drop, and her head swivels twice; one to look out of the window, and the other to look back at her. “That's not--”

“-- possible?” She can't help the small, wry smile. “You have ice powers and I had my memories altered by a rock troll when I was five years old, Elsa. Is time magic really that inconceivable?”

The silence stretches between them for a long while after that, and she takes the chance to simply _watch_ Elsa while she waits for her to digest her words; to study her with a leisurely sort of intensity that she's never had to chance to use before, apart from in her own imagination. Her memories of this woman are fuzzy and time-worn and limited in the first place, and while she knows that the ones she has are probably colored by her own feelings, they still pale in comparison to the real thing.

She wants to kiss her. Kiss her and-- and _God_ , so much more than that, but she has to remember that no matter how surreal this moment it, it _is_ still real. Elsa is still there and already hurting and confused, and while the memory of losing their parents is – to her - little more than a dull throb that's long buried under far worse ones, to Elsa, it's new and sharp and crippling in intensity.

It's only when Elsa's lips part around a deep breath that the world seems to fade back into focus, and then her sister is stepping forward carefully; one hand coming up and almost, _almost_ touching her face before Elsa apparently remembers herself, and stops.

“What happened to you?” It's a low, heart-wrenching whisper that makes her eyes sting, but she shoves it down and takes a breath of her own.

“What _will happen_ ,” she corrects, but not unkindly, and catches Elsa's hand with her own before it can drop fully. The jerk travels all the way up into Elsa's shoulder, and she takes care to keep her hold gentle and not restricting even as she shushes softly. “It's okay, Elsa.” The frost is sparkling under her touch already, but all it takes is a thought and a pulsing in the palm of her own hand, and then it's gone. “See? You can't hurt me.”

Elsa's fingers flex under her own, and those blue eyes are staring at their joined hands in a mixture of wonder and patent disbelief. “How--” She stops herself, and her head shakes when it lifts. “But Anna _has_ no magic!”

“No,” she agrees. “And I hope she never does, because I only got this when you died.”

It's not much, of course; not near enough to cast fire or even ice, but enough to thaw and warm in small amounts, and now, she guesses that maybe the better part of Elsa's magic went into creating Olaf.

“ _Died?”_ Elsa startles bodily. “Wha-- _how?_ ”

“I... don't think I should tell you that,” she returns, and ducks her head uncomfortably. “I got a long speech about temporal mechanics and the something-something continuum that honestly went mostly over my head, but I did get the point about how trying to warn against one thing might only make something much _worse_ happen.

There's a pause, and a deep, puzzled furrow in Elsa's brow. “Then why are you here?”

“To ask a favor that'll hopefully accomplish the same thing,” she explains as she twines their fingers; vividly aware of the difference between Elsa's smooth skin and her own hard callouses. “ _Let her in_ , Elsa. Let her care, _please,_ because she does; _so much_.” Carefully, she cradles Elsa's cheek in her free hand, and if her smile is a little wan, then so be it. “Though I don't think she realizes exactly _how_ much, yet.”

And the _how much_ must be showing in her own eyes, because there's a deep blush rising in Elsa's cheeks like the red of a sunrise, but there's also a flicker of... _something_ in those blue eyes, and if she had to put a name to it, she thinks that she might call it hope.

“I'm not your Anna,” she then sighs, and drops her gaze to watch the pad of her own thumb trace the outline of Elsa's lips. “I haven't been for a long time. Please don't let her turn into me.”

For several seconds, her heart just seems to freeze in her chest, and though it hurts more when it starts again – slower now – she manages a smile through the grimace of pain, even as she falters and Elsa grabs at her arms.

“ _Anna!_ ”

“It's okay,” she gasps, but allows herself to be guided to a seat on Elsa's bed before she falls into the pillows and her head buzzes angrily. “It means it's working.”

There's a shimmer of white at the edge of her vision, and her heart is beating slower and slower; stuttering painfully in her chest while her hands tingle. Her face does, too, but she thinks muzzily that that might be because Elsa is touching her; wide-eyed and teary and so clearly frightened that it hurts to look at.

“This is a good thing,” she breathes, and tries to soothe her, though the fact that she can see Elsa's hand _through her own_ when she covers it probably isn't reassuring at all. “Your Anna will never become me, so I don't need to exist anymore.”

Elsa sobs; low and almost animal, and her hands are so gentle when they cradle her face. The kiss, however, is hard and desperate, and enough to make her steadily numbing fingers lift and sink into soft, pale hair even as she returns it; finding the bindings and pulling until Elsa's braid is tumbling free and spilling over her shoulder.

“Be free,” she says against Elsa's lips when they break apart. “Don't hide, Elsa, because you are _everything_. To me, and to her. Just...” A weak laugh. “Just-- let her grow into it. Let her realize it, and when she does, _let her show you_.”

“I will,” Elsa promises; her voice wavering sharply.

“Promise me something else?” Her voice is low and seems to echo faintly, and though she manages to raise her hand, it's almost completely see-through and when she tries to cup Elsa's face, her fingers just go straight through her skin. “If you ever have a son... name him Olaf.” She's vaguely aware of Elsa's tears dripping from her cheek and hitting the pillow that's actually below her own head. “Because he was perfect. Perfect, and ours.” Barely, her lips shape a smile, and she drinks in the sight of her sister before her vision leaves her. “Just like the snowman I named him for.”

“I promise,” Elsa whispers hoarsely, and then sound disappears as well and Anna, or maybe it's Robin, knows that her time is up.

It feels, she thinks before she loses the ability to do as much, a lot like going to sleep after a very long day.

_That's not the beginning of the end_  
_That's the return to yourself_  
_The return to innocence_

xXxXx

Surely, she's run out of tears by now. After having no bodies to bury but needing a burial anyway for the sake of closure, she swears that her tear ducts must have dried up. She hasn't shed a single one all day, actually, and more than anything, that knowledge makes her feel guilty. Not crying at your own parents' funeral... God, it must have looked as if she didn't even love them, but she did – she _does_ – and yet the tears hadn't come and all she'd been left with was the hollow ache in her chest, the heaviness in her head and the sound of the pastor's voice below the faint, warm breeze.

Even in the sunshine, she'd felt _cold_ above all else, and now that she's back inside the castle and shuffling bleary-eyed along the shadowy halls, she tugs her small cloak tighter around her and doesn't feel a single bit warmer.

Even today, Elsa didn't show, and though she knows – _aches with_ – how useless it will be, she still stops by her sister's door and knocks, because she has to try.

“Elsa?” she calls; softly into all that silence. “Please...”

_I know you're in there_  
_People are asking where you've been_  
_They say 'have courage', and I'm trying to_  
_I'm right out here for you_  
_Just let me in_

_We only have each other_  
_It's just you and me_  
_What are we gonna do?_

The wooden surface of the door drags her clothing out of place as she slides down it and slumps on the floor, and she just feels so  _tired_ .

_Do you wanna build a snowman?_

She doesn't even hear the click of the handle turning, but she  _does_ feel the shift when her backrest moves away from her, and she shifts and shuffles so abruptly that she ends up almost tripping over her own skirts while still  _sitting down._ But she manages to turn and get to her knees, and then her breath catches in her throat because Elsa is  _there_ – right in front of her eyes – and while her eyes are rimmed in red and the skin around them swollen from her own tears, she's also sinking to her knees in front of her, and Anna can't  _breathe_ when a single, gloved hand settles on the floor between them before the other one hesitantly reaches out--

\--and Anna almost knocks her to the floor with the force of her embrace.

“It's okay, Anna,” Elsa whispers against her ear, and the feeling of a gentle hand stroking her head just makes her sob harder. “It's going to be okay; I promise. I've got you.”

 


End file.
